Submersion
by hitchcock-starlet
Summary: When Dean refuses to tell Sam that he thinks he is being followed, he pays dearly for his insecurities and is left at the mercy of a cruel captor. Takes place after "Dream a Little Dream of Me." Plenty of Dean angst and hurt.
1. I

**A/N:** Hello all! This is my first attempt at a Supernatural fanfic. I enjoy breathing life into my ideas, and strive to remain accurate. Please let me know if you think anything is OOC! I embrace constructive criticism and relish any reviews. Also, I'm writing this as I go so reviews will always make uploads go faster. .-

**Summary:** When Dean refuses to tell Sam that he thinks he is being followed, he pays dearly for his insecurities and is left at the mercy of a cruel captor. With only a short time left before the end of Dean's last year on Earth, will Sam be able to find him in time to save him from a fate almost as bad as Hell itself?

**Warnings:** Mild swearing. Post-"Dream a Little Dream of Me," so spoilers up until that point. Plenty of Dean angst and hurt. Rated T for now; will be rated M in the future for content.

* * *

It was the dripping -- a normally small and insignificant noise -- that got to him first. It became a near-pounding in his head, and it echoed throughout the space and into the darkness that just wouldn't budge.

The sound made him open his eyes, where a momentary vertigo overwhelmed him enough to close them again. The quick glimpse that he had grasped―floors made of stones, and the black that bled from the corners of the room onto the small patch of light cast from some unknown opening to the outside―just didn't sit well with what he knew about himself, about where he should be.

He opened his eyes again; nothing had changed. His hazel irises had adjusted to the light now, however, or lack thereof. The dripping, he decided, was coming from the far left corner… from some place he couldn't see.

There was a lot that he couldn't see, and it was starting to piss him off. So he concentrated on what he could feel.

There was a breeze, coming from somewhere above him. It rustled his hair, sending chills down his already goose-bumped form. It didn't seem to go far, in this room, suggesting that it wasn't a very large space.

He had no shirt on. Somewhere in his fuddled mind, he knew that wasn't right. He wasn't at home in bed, and if he wasn't at home in bed, then he should have all his clothes...

His head. There was a stickiness where the breeze couldn't budge some strands from his skull. Sticky like... sticky like honey. Sticky like car oil.

His mind searched for the answer held just beyond the grip of his thoughts.

And there it was... sticky like _blood_.

It explained the pounding in his brain, at least.

Finally, as full awareness dawned on him, he felt the fire burning in his arms. They were being held above him, and the reasons for this also evaded him for a few seconds. But then he felt them too-- the cold, thick cuffs that cut into his wrists. The muscles in his arms screamed to the point that he knew he had been in this position a while.

He was on his knees, an irony that played a small smile on his lips. He wasn't a praying man, but he was quickly realizing that now would be the time to do it if he were.

The cuffs held him so taut that his bare chest and arms were stretched to their limits, and the direness of the situation was beginning to dawn on him. The smile faded. Panic began to set in.

A wave a nausea rose over him, as fast as the fear.

He couldn't remember how he had gotten here, and the cold wall against his back offered little support as he began to feel dizzy.

_Think_, he thought, trying to regain some sort of calm in the confusion of his mind. _Think think think think…_

He was in Hell.

That was it, wasn't it? It was over...

_No_… he cried in his mind, his breaths beginning to come in gasps as hyperventilation overcame him.

His time was up, he was in Hell…

Finally getting what he deserved.

He kneeled like that, the weight of his body tugging at his wrists as he gasped for breath, heart beating so fast that it felt like his pulse was choking him. _Oh God, no..._ his thoughts screamed, already forgetting the earlier irony he had supposed. He closed his eyes, wheezing, his head slumped against his his left arm in an effort to regain composure once more.

_No, no..._ He couldn't be in Hell.

He told himself this, several times. _I'm not in Hell. I'm not in Hell._

Flashes of his own face took over his mind, drowning his thoughts; evilly contorted and eyes black as a moonless night.

_"You're gonna die. And this. This is what you are going to become!"_

"Not yet..." The young man cried out, his raspy voice echoing in the room. It startled him, snapping him from the visions in his head. His eyes now open, he fought to take control of his breathing.

He allowed his pupils to flit around the room. "Not yet..." He repeated in a whisper.

Heart thudding, he swallowed, subconsciously trying to swallow his fear, and allowed his mind to absorb his surroundings once more.

Dark, cold, stone room.

Not Hell.

His face flushed with shame at the outburst, at the absolute fear that had overcome his normally collected self. "Stupid…" he muttered, scowling.

He shivered and took a deep breath. So he wasn't in Hell.

Not yet.

Then what _had_ happened?

He still couldn't remember, and his cold, stone chamber was void of any clues. The thought of searching his mind for help to this mystery made him hesitate―he hated dipping into his own thoughts lately―but he knew it had to be done.

He swallowed and closed his eyes again, trying to keep his mind off of his quivering limbs. What was the last thing he remembered?

A hotel room.

Just another old-fashioned, average, dingy hotel room. Two single beds. Ratty curtains. Ancient television.

It was night. His brother had won the battle for the remote control. _"We are not watching softcore!"_ His brother had exclaimed.

_"It's not softcore, it's… 'Late Night Adventures in Sin City.'"_ He had replied in defense.

_"It's not happening is what it is."_

_"Fine."_ He pretended to be wounded, and got up from his bed. _"Bitch."_

From there, he had pulled on his tee that lay haphazardly on the foot of his bed, letting it fall over the waste band of a plaid pair of pajama pants. Wandered outside for a breath of fresh air. Told his brother he was going to get some M&Ms from the convenience store half a block away.

And then?

He struggled to remember. Something… someone… from behind a corner near the store…

Someone familiar.

Suddenly the image assaulted him with a fierceness-- Jet black hair, navy blue eyes, bright red lips.

His breath caught in his throat at the realization. It was her.

He shook his head. _Dammit!_ He thought. _I knew something about her wasn't right… why the hell didn't I do something about it?_

But he knew why.

He hadn't wanted to worry his brother. His recently overprotective, younger brother was already more than worried about him. About his actions, about his state of mind... about the impending doom that would separate them at the end of the one year's time.

He didn't need to worry his brother any more, especially when it was just going to turn out to be paranoia anyway.

The woman… he had been seeing her everywhere.

At first he thought his mind was playing tricks on him. And then he battled with possibilities of coincidences. All the while ignoring that inkling instinct that something, in fact, was very wrong.

It was she that had come from the shadows, near the corner store, outside of the hotel room.

The last thing he remembered was her and her cold, dark blue eyes.

He shook his head, trying to erase her image from his mind. Opened his eyes again.

But she was still there.

He stared at her, confused.

"What's the matter Dean?"

What he had thought was only an image in his mind had asked this out loud, striking cold hard fear into his chest and causing him to jump.

The woman sneered. "Don't you know when you see a good thing in front of you?"


	2. II

**A/N:** Thanks for all of the reviews! I apologize that I'm not as quick to update as many other authors; my schedule is often quite hectic. I love any and all feedback though. My main concern is keeping the characters realistic, so if you find that I'm straying from what Sam and Dean are really like, please let me know.

**Warnings:** Same as before - T for language and a tad of violence; will be M in the future. Spoilers up until (and including) "Dream a Little Dream of Me."

* * *

Sam Winchester had flicked through the channels of the television set more times than he could count. It was beyond 11 p.m. and most of the stations hosted either infomercials, soft-core porn or shows as old as the television set itself.

Giving up, he sighed and glanced once more at the red numbers on the clock beside his bed. They seemed to be going by quickly. But like watching a pot boil, it was the hotel room door that was taking too long.

Sam was gravely anticipating his brother's return. Dean had said he was only going to the store at the corner of the block, and yet it had been over an hour since he'd gone.

The ever-cautious instincts of a hunter were setting in, and Sam regretted not sending Dean's cell phone with him. At the time it would have appeared ludicrous, but in hindsight it would have been the natural, smart thing to do...

Sam regretted a lot of things lately.

For one, he regretted, like so many other times in his life, that he and his brother hadn't lived normal lives.

It really all came back to that in the end- if they had lived a regular life, like the one that most other twenty-somethings knew, he wouldn't be worrying about what was taking Dean so long. He wouldn't be automatically thinking about grabbing the sawed-off from beside the bed just to go outside and look for him.

He wouldn't be fretting that Dean's last year had been cut suddenly short by some bloody demon on this warm night in Wisconsin.

That was it. What he regretted the most was not having more time to spend with the only living person in the world that he really cared about.

Sam shook the morbid thoughts out of his head and sighed. He got up from the bed, pacing around for a little bit. His eyes went to the window. His feet followed. He pushed away at the curtains, for once second-thinking the decision to always keep the window closed tight.

Maybe he would have heard something otherwise.

Despite himself, Sam let out a little bit of a laugh. He was assuming that something had happened to Dean. Worrying, once more. And if Dean found out, Sam was sure he would be relentlessly hounded for it.

He wasn't giving his older brother enough credit. He could have just as easily slipped over to the bar for a beer or a whiskey, which was not unlike him at all.

Especially these days... Dean's impending doom had sent Sam's older brother reeling on the occasional self-destructive stints that involved lots of booze, questionable women and good, hard practice at pretending not to care. Luckily for Sam, he mostly saved these moments for their down time.

Unluckily, however, that this thought didn't make Sam any less worried.

He sighed, coming to a decision. Jacket and shoes on. Gun left behind. And cell phone, definitely coming.

* * *

The silence was throbbing throughout the stone room and the cold wall against Dean's back held no recluse. The breeze throughout the place held a bit more force, suggesting that a door was open somewhere. The hunter's eyes fell past the woman that stood before him, for the first time noticing the light that fell onto the floor from beyond the shadows. There was some sort of hallway, a hidden door off to the side.

Trembling from the stress on his upper body, Dean was still half-shocked by the time he found it in himself to answer the female in his presence. "Who the hell are you?" He asked, his voice still gruff with disuse.

"Now Dean, that's not a very nice attitude to show your host."

She would have been about the same height as he, had he been standing. Perhaps a few years older. She wore a black trench coat, black leather pants and a red tank. Her glossy black hair reflected the light filtering through the doorway, giving an almost halo-like appearance. Her dark blue eyes glinted in a metallic sort of way and she was obviously more amused by his predicament than he.

Dean's fear dissipated from the surface as fast as he could manage, replacing it with a smirk. "Sorry, it's just that my dates normally ask for my number first before taking me home. Or at least a drink."

The woman clucked noises of disapproval as she knelt her slender frame down to meet his gaze straight on. "Always the charmer, aren't you Dean?"

"That's what they tell me." He grinned, mischief giving his eyes a bit more life.

"That's what I like about you, Dean... your sense of humor," the woman said. She reached a hand out and stroked the side of his face, much to Dean's surprise and chagrin. He jerked his head away, not able to hide the look of disgust that easily replaced his cocky mask.

"Well that, among other things," she continued, a cherry-red grin of enjoyment at his reaction.

Dean turned his head back to meet her gaze, eyes no longer smiling. "How do you know who I am?" He growled.

The woman smiled. "I know lots about you, Dean Winchester. But don't worry, we'll have plenty enough time to get more acquainted."

The fact that she had used his full name was not lost on Dean. "How about you start by telling me who the hell you are?" He asked, repeating the earlier question.

A pause. She sized him up with her navy eyes, and he couldn't read her expression. She stood up, pushing her hands on the knees of her leather pants to do so. Stretched herself to her full height, and looked down at him like that. "My name is Myah, Dean." She said.

"Well, Myah," His eyes couldn't help but follow her movements, which were almost mesmerizing. "Now that we've gotten to know each other a little bit better, how about you let me out of these?" He rattled the chains and smiled sweetly, white teeth a stark contrast against the shadows on his face. The movement jarred is sore limbs, prodding momentary flames of pain as he bit back a grimace.

Myah let out a tinkling laugh, one that reminded him eerily of a child and an insane person all at the same time. She didn't answer; just stood there and watched him for a couple minutes with her piercing gaze. His eyes flared; he was really beginning to lose patience with this chick.

Patience was never his strong suit.

Suddenly she spun on the heels of her boots and left the room altogether.

Confused and annoyed, Dean was left only with his thoughts once more.

It was obvious that she was avoiding letting him in on the secret as to why he was held captive. It's not like Dean wasn't used to being on someone's naughty list - maybe that's why Santa rarely visited he and Sam, he pondered with inner, erratic amusement - but at least he could usually venture a guess as to why.

As far as he knew, he had never met this girl before in his life.

A demon, maybe? Dean knew that he had pissed off enough of those in his lifetime, and there was no real way to tell if she was one of them while being chained up like this.

Unless...

The raven-haired captor sauntered back into the room, her hands as empty as when she had left. Apparently she hadn't gone to get anything.

She strode up to him, that gratingly cocky grin still plastered on her red lips.

"_Christo_," Dean said suddenly, eyes narrowed in anticipation.

A flash of confusion graced Myah's face for a few short seconds before she started to laugh at him once more.

Dean scowled.

"He's not my favorite person in the world, Dean," Myah chuckled, "but I'm definitely not one of your buddies from Hell... not the Hell you know anyway." She paused and smiled, allowing her words to soak into her helpless captive.

Dean didn't miss a beat. "So you've been following me around for my charming good looks and dazzling smile?" He flashed a trademark grin once more. He had dropped the ball and it had bounced back into her court. Back to Plan A - they always hated it when he took his seemingly dire situation lightly.

Pretend he didn't care. Tick off the bad dudes. Take them by surprise.

In fact, this sort of facade helped him through a lot more situations than just dealing with enemies...

"You know Dean," Myah began to prowl around him slowly. He hated that she kept calling him by his name. "I've been following you a lot longer than you think. I've had my eye on you for quite some time..."

Sick of the conversation but not willing to let it show, Dean licked his dry lips before responding. "You know lady, that's kind of creepy. Seriously. A phone call works wonders."

She stopped her movements and frowned down at him. "That devil-may-care attitude of yours is not going to help you this time Dean."

_It's getting to her,_ he thought. _Good_.

He was beginning to lose all feeling in his fingers, pin-pricks and all. He knew he had to get the blood flowing again. "Well, now that you've put me in my place, how about you let me out to stretch for a bit?"

There was a flash of white that Dean later registered as the pale skin of her hand. A sharp pain inflamed the side of his face, and his head whipped to the side with force. Momentarily stunned, the hunter slowly brought his eyes back to center, ignoring the pain in his cheek and body. A small smile crept onto his face despite himself.

She was getting sick of him.

"You have no idea what you're dealing with, Dean," She said with a voice almost cold enough to shake Dean's resolve. He fought to keep his grin. "You're going to want to start showing me some respect, if you know what's good for you."

Dean swallowed. "You seem to know enough about what's good for me for the both of us. How about I leave those kinds of details to you?"

"Stop being a smart ass." She warned, voice low.

"Let me out."

"You know I'm not about to do that."

"Do I?" Dean asked, frustration leaking into his voice. He was shivering, and it was beginning to affect his speech. "You still haven't told me why I'm here."

"Do you really want to know, Dean? Are you actually ready to know who I really am?" She paced around him again, and it was her turn to smile.

The cold room echoed with the weight of the question. Dean knew something bad was coming. But he didn't care.

"Tell me, you bitch," he replied.


	3. III

**A/N:** I am back for another round! I hope I didn't keep you all waiting for too long. Thanks so much to everyone who has put this story on alert, and even more so to those who have left me a review in the first couple of chapters: Benigma, Halcyon Impulsion, MontyPythonFan, deangirl1, Naed, alexithymia, heather03nmg, Kaimi Hoshi, Silvertayl. Your feedback is inspiring and it excites me into writing more, so please continue to review!

**Warnings:** Although still currently rated T, some of the following events may border the rating of M. I'm not entirely sure, so please contact me if you feel that my story needs to be upped in rating; I will not hesitate to do so. **Warnings include** some violence and gore, a tad bit of swearing and a bit of what some may or may not find sexually-oriented. I don't, but I'm just playing it safe. You've been warned!

* * *

_Drip._

_Drip._

.

.

_Drip._

The two people in the cold, stone room stared at each other, one on his knees, the other towering over him.

On the side of the man's face trickled a young and bright spring of blood from his cheek, while the sticky wetness from his hairline was becoming old and dark. His hair was messy, his eyes wary, his chest bare.

The woman sported flawless pale skin. Her lips, shaped in a sinister smile, never seemed to lack a cherry-coated shine. Her clothing was glossy and looked brand new and her hair fell so that not a single strand stood out of place.

They were exact opposites in this moment of time.

For all Dean knew, they were exact opposites all the time.

He choked back fear in a manner that he always did - with a little bit of humor, a little bit of hope and plenty of ignoring the inner pessimist. He grasped at the facts likes straws in his brother's hand when they were young, and the facts were these - although he was strung up and at a loss of advantage, he had a lot of experience at overcoming these sort of odds. Also, there was only one of her. He had overtaken many enemies at once, alone, before.

Dean was hopeful that he would get out of this one unscathed.

And he clung to that hope even more so than his shackles, because deep down inside he had a dreadful feeling that things just were not going to be that easy.

He had been taught all of his life to trust his instincts, to never ignore that feeling radiating from his stomach that always told the truth.

He was desperately trying to ignore that feeling now.

Because he was going to get out of here. _He was._

He glared at his captor, impatient and expectant. She grinned back.

Then without warning, she sprung at him with a hiss, barely giving the hunter enough time to flinch and give in to the natural instinct of shutting his eyes. Silence ensued. No pain, no unconscious sea of concussion. She hadn't touched him. Against the red-tinted black of his closed irises, Dean could feel the hot breath of her mouth. Slow and steady, unlike the erratic panting of his own lungs.

He reopened his eyes.

Merely inches from his face he was met with the hot, molten blue eyes of Myah. Her nose was almost touching his, but her body radiated no warmth. Dean blinked, confused and ill at ease. Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, he held completely still, waiting for the killing strike.

It didn't come.

Myah smiled at him, a smile so wide that it showed her teeth all the way to the edge of her gums. It was then that he noticed the odd grooves in the pink above her pearly whites. It was something that took him a small moment to grasp, something that just wouldn't be there unless -

Ugly, sharp points flew out of the dimples, extending beyond the woman's regular teeth to reveal a second set as another, deep hiss fluttered from the back of her throat. With a gasp Dean automatically panicked and tried to propel himself away from her, resulting in smacking his head against the cold stone behind him. His vision swam, her flawless features taunting him with dizzying movements.

She held her face in front of him for a moment - jaw open wide, hot breath pressing into his eyes at regular intervals - before backing away and standing up straight once more. Her mouth closed, the sharp teeth slowly retracting. She wasn't smiling anymore.

Although Dean was still stunned from the contact his head had made against the wall and the event that had just unfolded, he still had enough sense to realize that the look on Myah's face was that of hunger.

This realization must have shown on his face, because Myah straightened her posture even further, her navy eyes growing colder and she glowered down at him.

It unnerved him how quickly her emotions seemed to change in the short while he'd known her.

"So," She asked finally, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly in yet another display of random mood, "Are you afraid of me yet?"

Dean scoffed, trying to be unaware of how much pain he was in and the stubborn fear that balled at the back of his throat. "I've seen more bite from a chihuahua."

She was amused by his comment and let her head fall back in a bit of a laugh. "You haven't felt my bite yet, boy." She leaned over him and traced a finger along his jaw.

Dean grunted, turning his head away. He barely hid his disgust as he responded to the person he was swiftly beginning to hate, "So why don't you eat me already?"

He had meant the words to be sarcastic, but it came out as a growl.

Myah smiled cockily, obviously expecting the question. For some reason, Dean felt like she was getting closer to him, although he didn't see her move. It left a cold, empty feeling in his chest.

"You're not the entree, Dean," She said in a menacingly low voice. "You're the dessert."

_Drip._

The sound of the water traveled through Dean's veins, chilling his soul. "I don't know, lady," he said with a forced grin, "I've been known to be pretty bitter." The latter was said with full meaning.

She sniffed at him, her eyes widening in what could only be described as glee. "How about I decide that for myself?" She took a step towards him, reaching around behind her. There was a glint of light and before Dean could realize what was happening, she was kneeling before him and he was staring at the blade of a powerful, curved knife.

It was a beautiful weapon, about twelve inches from tip to bolster. Its silver appearance seemed to give a off a radiant hue, and there were black etchings in the blade that he didn't care to recognize. The swift movement from holster to his face had caused the metal to hum. Dean swallowed.

In yet another motion almost faster than he could see, Myah had her hand around his neck and was pressing his head up against the wall. He stared down at her with widened eyes, hazel glinting with fear and loathing. "What the he-" He gurgled, before she tightened her squeeze.

"Sshh," Myah said in a whisper, licking her lips. Despite the awkward position of his head, Dean could see that her eyes were glazed over in hunger.

"Time for you to be a good boy."

"Augh!" Dean cried, fighting against the powerful hand and the chains from above that kept him at bay. The knife was in her right hand as she held his head up with her left. Her strength was immeasurable, and Dean found himself choking for air. Slowly she lowered the knife closer to him, and he shut his eyes, one leg shooting out from under him in an attempt to kick at her. It was no use, and he readied himself for the feeling of the blade against his neck at any moment.

When the cold metal touched against the inner skin of his upper arm, it took several seconds for it to register in his brain. The pain of the slice that followed also took a moment to appear through the fog. Dean cried aloud in surprise.

She lowered his head a little, allowing him to see her movements better. Crimson was trickling from a four-inch surface wound in his arm, making him ill at the sight. More than any pain, or even the horror of an attack to the neck, this unpredictable action of a vampire was what frightened him.

Her eyes flashed as she leaned forward, holding his gaze as her tongue flicked over the blood on his arm. Her lids shut in pleasure and she began to suck at the wound, drinking it in. Dean could feel the powerful movement of her tongue against his skin, and it disgusted him in a way he never felt possible. "You freak!" He cried out, fighting once more against her hold. "What are you doing?"

She continued to ignore him, sucking the life out of his vein with a greater force. The wound was small, though, and the cut wasn't deep. Soon his body's natural heroics lessened the flow of blood. Myah did nothing to prevent this, and looked back up at him with a mouthful of his red juices.

Dean was near hyperventilation, her closeness and the smell of his own blood overwhelming his bare senses. That was _him _dripping down the side of her face, making her lips even more cherry than before...

Suddenly Myah leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, her left hand still holding his face still. Feeling the warm stickiness against his face, Dean cried out against her mouth, stricken in horror and kicking both of his legs in panic. The pull on his arms should have been more than he could bare, but he was drowning in a black sea of fear.

His strangled sounds were enough to gain her tongue access to the inside of his mouth, and he was suddenly overwrought with the warm tangy taste that had been, only moments before, flowing through his veins. He gagged, his eyes clenched shut at the taste, at the smell, and at the overall thought of what was happening to him.

She allowed the contents of her mouth flow freely into his, and he could soon feel the creepy tingling of his blood trickle down the back of his throat. He began to choke on it, his stomach a hot swarm of nausea that threatened to be released.

The captor must have sensed this, because she released his face from hers. She moved back a little, watching him sputter and swallow, a trail of crimson dripping out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin. His eyes remained closed as he fought to gain control of his reflexes, his breathing. Slowly his lungs took up a more normal pace, his Adam's apple balancing out into normal movements. His legs were trying to prop himself up awkwardly against the pull of his chains, his body having lost height in going from kneeling to sitting.

The woman stood up, knife at her side as she stared down at her prisoner.

Finally his eyes opened.

The hazel tore through to her own navy eyes, a vicious hate and betrayal that almost burned at the sight. She smiled proudly at him and took a step forward to pat him on the head. "Good boy," she said fondly, ignoring the way he fought to get away from her touch as she ran her fingers through his hair. She stepped back again, his loathing sight watching her every move in a distrust that would never falter again. Lifting the blade, she ran her tongue against it, tasting the cooling blood that had collected there.

"Are you afraid of me now?" She asked him quietly, her eyes laughing maniacally. And with that, she spun around and left the room.

The near complete silence was broken only by Dean's sticky pants of breath. Shuddering, he suddenly lost the contents of his stomach on the floor beside him, and consciousness became fleeting.

_Drip._

_Drip._

He wasn't sure if that was the just the water anymore.


	4. IV

**A/N:** Well, this chapter was a long time coming. I'd apologize for the delay, except a) this update is much longer than my other chapters, and b) I got hardly any reviews at all last chapter. Which is a shame, because that was a pretty defining and intense one, and one of my favorites to write so far! I hope I didn't scare anyone away with it. was glitching that day, though, so I'm going to blame it on that because I'm sure you'll all give me something nice to read in the next few days. )

Thanks to those that did review the last chapter - deangirl1, MontyPythonFan, Benigma, riquitv and Maz Kazama. You all made my days!

Please let me know if any of the characters seem OOC, as well. Sometimes writing late at night isn't the best thing!

**Warnings: **Language, violence, gore. Still "T," but keep in mind this story will eventually be rated "M."

* * *

Embarrassed by the fear he felt, Sam tried to ignore that little inkling of doubt his stomach held, the one that insisted there was something wrong despite the only evidence being just a couple of hours of lost time. Sometimes he hated how much of an emotional creature he was. It was such a stark contrast to Dean, who insisted upon burying any sort of feeling that came from the waste up. Sam had learned to embrace this part of himself a long time ago, but sometimes he still wished he could be a bit more like his older brother in that regard.

In many regards.

Sam shook his head and looked at the area around him. Although the street was lit by lamps, the closest one to the convenience store was out. Sam frowned at this, his mind over-working with a list of creatures that held any sort of effect on electricity.

And he definitely had demons on the brain.

Sam let out a small groan and ran a hand through his mussy hair. This was ridiculous. What the heck was going on?

The street was completely bare all the way to the store. There were no cars parked on the curb, no drunks stumbling home in the late hour. With trained eyes, Sam watched the sides of the road for any movement or other suspicious activity as he made his way along. The area they were staying at was right on the main road; the current walk being a side street. It hosted chain link fences and badly-kept bushes on both sides. Not a whole lot of potential for hidden boogie-men.

When Sam made his way into the shop, he couldn't help but search the entire building before swallowing in fearful disappointment and approaching the clerk. He pulled out a picture of his brother from his wallet, saddened at the passing thought that he knew he kept it there for exactly this type of reason.

The clerk was an older man, with greying hair. He was a little rough around the edges, but seemed generally warm in spirit. Sam held up the photograph.

"Have you seen my brother?" He asked, his voice coming out a little thicker than he had meant it to. "His name is Dean…" No need for aliases here. "Dean Winchester."

The man took a quick study of the picture in front of him, then raised his blue eyes to study Sam. "Awful lot of you looking for this fella," he said, "He in some sort of trouble?"

Sam's breath caught in his throat. _An awful lot_…? He swallowed. Shook his head. "Please, sir… he's missing. Have you seen him tonight?" A small pause. "There was someone else looking for him?"

The older man nodded. "Said she was his wife. Haven't seen him in here since yesterday, told her that too."

The youngest Winchester's eyes swam back in forth, registering the information. The clerk's words were settling into his stomach like cold, hard marbles, and he fought not to panic right then and there. "Sir, can you tell me what she looked like?"

"She was a little shorter than you… black hair, dark blue eyes. Pretty little thing. You saying she wasn't his wife?"

Sam's eyes finally stopped moving and fell back to the clerk. "No… no. She is…" He fumbled for a reason. "She's his ex-wife… I'm a little worried she might hurt him…"

Something in his voice, his distraught face or his dark eyes must of seemed genuine enough, because the greying man accepted this with a small smile of sympathy. "I'm sorry, son, if I had known…"

"No, it's okay," Sam told him. "I just…" His voice caught in his throat. Alarms were screaming in his brain. _Dean's gone. Dean's kidnapped. Dean's hurt… _He suddenly realized that his mind had taken over and he pushed the thoughts away, gaining control of himself. Saw the concern in the clerk's face over his hesitating speech. "Is there anything else you can tell me?" He asked, his voice very close to pleading.

The man shook his head sadly.

"She didn't say anything?"

"Nope. Only that she was looking for her husband, Dean Winchester. Had her own photograph."

These facts sent a chill through Sam. Whoever this person was, she knew Dean's full name. _And_ had a picture of him…

Sam clenched his jaw. Green eyes focused without noticing on a pack of batteries behind the clerk's head. He didn't know what to say anymore. He felt like he was in several different parts, none of which were in working condition—his voice, his body, his mind…

"Oh, wait a second."

Sam's attention snapped back to the man.

The clerk shuffled out from behind the counter, walking in small steps to where Sam stood. Hunter instincts put the Winchester's body on guard. Human instincts assured him that the clerk was no threat.

The man bent down at Sam's feet and picked up a scrap of paper. He handed it to the much taller youth before shuffling back to his original spot. "She dropped that, earlier, when she bought a pack of gum… been meaning to pick it up but I forgot all about it."

Without a word, Sam practically ripped the bit of paper open. It was a receipt. His eyes scanned the information, and a glimmer of hope lit up his previously dull eyes.

It was a time-stamped ATM receipt.

Sam nodded his thanks to the employee before all but dashing out of the store.

* * *

Ebbing on the edge of consciousness, with the shadows of his mind threatening to overthrow the shadows of the cold, stone room, Dean had no idea when exactly it was that the pain in his arms began to fall silent. He thought that he might have passed out for a while, but he had no way to be sure. The dim light streaming in from the window above his head did not really seem to get brighter or darker, ever. When had he been taken from the dark street outside of his and Sam's hotel room? It had been night time, hadn't it? His head swam in the murky thickness of ill treatment and surreality.

Had Sam noticed that he was missing? Dean's narrowed hazel eyes flicked around the room, trying to concentrate. Sam. Where was he? _Oh please let him be okay..._

How long had he been in this dreary room, cold and cruel and now reeking embarrassingly with the stench of vomit? Time really had no power here, and that made him nervous. It could have just been minutes since _she_ had left, or it could have been hours.

It could be just minutes until she returned...

His breath picked up, his mind changing directions at the thought. His captor made no sense to his knowledgeable mind, on any level. Not as a vampire, not as some sort of self-righteous angel of vengeance. Not even as just a plain old lunatic. Dean didn't know what would happen next, and that scared him.

The thought of the vicious Myah was amping his adrenaline and quickly spurring his consciousness. His sense of time had dissipated into the night outside of the convenience store, but he refused to think that his free will did as well. Maybe he didn't know what the crazy bitch had in store. Maybe he couldn't feel much of his arms right now, and maybe that meant something bad. But maybe he wasn't going to just hang around and do nothing about it...

These thoughts pushed away his doubts. Determination was setting in, overwhelming his helplessness and distracting him from the crusty stickiness that was on his mouth. Tenacity was something that seeped through his blood along with the Winchester name. He was not going to get his captor get the best of him.

He was feeling less nauseated than before, and although both his mind and strength were ill at ease, he swallowed the large lump in his throat that may or may not have been fear and shifted his weight so that he could get his feet out from under him.

Initial movement alone was a feat within itself, suggesting to him that it had probably been more than a few minutes since Myah's departure. Sluggishly, he strained his left leg out from under him. Let it stand beneath him, surprisingly bare toes curling over the stone. He shut his eyes; his entire body, whether he could feel it or not, was trembling from the effort. What was wrong with him? Was he really pathetic enough to not be able to _get up_?

No, he couldn't accept that. Dean wasn't good with limits. With one leg kneeling and his other holding his weight, he began to push himself up. His back pressed harshly against the wall behind him, and it scraped against his bare skin. His dead arms pulled against the shackles. Once again, time eluded him but he didn't care, didn't notice. Only saw the progress.

He made it to his feet.

Panting, all of his remaining strength was struggling to hold him there. He leaned against the wall, no longer supported by the chains. He had somehow managed to have his hand snaked around them, tightening the slack. Whether it were an accident or his own doing, he was grateful that Karma didn't seem to have a jarring fall in store.

He took a deep breath. Opened his eyes, allowed them to adjust to his surroundings once more.

Shut them with a gasp against the blinding light that suddenly filled the room.

The door.

He heard her laugh. He hated how he felt cold fear run through his body at the sound of her voice. He wasn't supposed to be scared of this shit, he was supposed to escape it.

Through his clenched-shut eyelids he heard her voice, a knife through the thick dark. "Well, well," she said, footfall sounding closer and closer. "Is this what Winchesters do to pass the time?"

Part of him didn't want to open his eyes at all. It was a very small, childish part of him, something that he didn't consciously realize he still had. He grew up when he was four; boy did he grow up big. To be thinking that if he didn't open his eyes-- if he didn't see this ruthless presence in front of him—that she wouldn't be real, was ludicrous. He silenced this stupid, innocent wish and forced his eyes open into narrowed slits.

Her attire was similar, but had changed enough to suggest that it was different day. Time, there it was. Peeking through in the oddest of places. He stood there, pressed against the wall with all his might, and glared at her.

"Cat got your tongue today, Dean?" Myah smiled, jeeringly. She placed her pale hands on her hips, the epitome of health and strength compared to his pathetic position.

Dean swallowed, hazel eyes shooting daggers, and muttered raspily, "Screw you."

The vampire frowned. Her stare echoed his. Slowly she shook her head. "Oh Dean. Don't be so bloody ignorant. You _really_ don't want to piss me off."

"I _really_ don't take orders very well." His low voice in his throat felt like the gritty wall on his back, piercing and foreign. His breaths were still rapid. A cold sweat now, glimmering in the light beyond Myah's back.

A swift movement, followed by pain. He was back on his knees again; the vampire's leg had shot out so fast that he hadn't even seen it. Dean cried aloud despite himself. Pins and needles, or rather screw drivers and rail road ties, stabbed mercilessly at his upper half, thanks to the tease of regular blood circulation that being on his feet had allowed. It was a new onslaught of fire, that ceased only a little after a few moments.

Still, he found it in him to mutter, "Bitch."

Again, she was on him so quickly that his eyes could not follow. Her hand was in his hair, and she tugged his head back so hard that he thought his scalp could no longer be attached. She forced him to look into her sweltering, navy eyes. Her low, cold voice rang through the air. "You'd better start treating me with respect. Did you really think you were going to escape?" She eased up a little, held a gentle hold on his sandy spikes. "You're never leaving here, Dean Winchester."

Again, with the name. She knew his full name. And if she knew who he was, Dean could be sure that she knew who Sammy was too…

"What the hell do you want with me?" He rasped, nostrils flaring with his gasps of breath.

"I already told you, Deanie." Her smile became sweet, so much of an astonishing change that he was surprised and sickened and lowered his eyes. Her hand left his head and fell to his chin, forcing him to look back up at her. "You're my dessert."

"Is this some kind of a sick joke?" He asked, after a pause. His head was throbbing, his body still trembling. Life was really sucking. "Because if it is, you really shouldn't quit your day job. Er, night job. Whatever."

Myah continued to smile at him, but it seemed sharp and cool. "No, Dean. This isn't one of your little jokes," she said slowly, as if explaining simple math to a five-year-old. "No, it's just as serious as that frightened little boy you're trying to hide."

To this, he had no words. Only a startled look of contempt.

The vampire reached behind her and pulled out the curved knife that she had used on him earlier. It glinted in the dim light, golden flashes that sliced fear into Dean he was horribly ashamed of, without even coming close to him.

She savored the expressions on his face, he could tell, even though he fought so hard to keep them at bay. His eyes held steady, straight ahead, at a spot only he could see. The slow lowering of the blade was purposeful, and for that he hated her even more.

He could barely feel the razor sharp edge this time as it cut through the forearm of his left arm. In his peripheral he could see the red drip down his side, lessened by a position above his heart but still a flow nonetheless. He grunted and grew pale, fighting to keep his resolve under control. This wasn't happening. Not again.

Myah lowered her mouth to the cut, tongue surprisingly cool against his flesh. Dean tried to ignore the putrid sensation of her sucking on him, tried to ignore the sharp smell of blood that graced the air once more, making him dizzy. He was assaulted with the sticky memory of what she had done to him earlier, and could suddenly taste the metallic warm taste of old blood in his mouth, mingling with the acrid after-taste of bile. Felt the dry, crusty stains around his mouth. His nausea returned full force, and he clenched his eyes shut, willing himself not to be ill, berating himself for showing weakness.

Like everything else, he didn't know how long it had lasted. By the time she lifted her head again he was full-on shaking, sweat dripping down his worried forehead. He waited a moment and then opened his eyes. Looked up at her warily.

She wiped away his blood from her face with the back of her hand, staring back down at him. Licked her lips, her teeth. Her human teeth. She hadn't pulled out her second set.

And she hadn't forced his blood into his mouth.

For that, he felt a pang of sickening gratefulness that shamed him.

Myah smacked her mouth. "You're just as tasty as I thought you'd be, you know that?"

"S-screw you."

_Slap_. The sound echoed louder than his heartbeats, his already rare cheek alive with pain once more.

"You like it rough Dean?"

His eyes were beginning to glaze over, but his mouth responded without a second thought. "Damn s-straight…"

The wrong end of a knife to his temple. Ringing in his ears, red flashing before his eyes.

"Yeah, baby… j-just like th-that." Barely above a whisper.

Dean let out a choke as Myah's cold hand suddenly encircled his throat and squeezed. She was bent over him, raven hair falling in both of their faces. Animalistic eyes bore into his. "I had a small supper," she growled slowly. "I think I can go for some more pie."

Without breaking eye contact she sliced his right forearm, quicker and more deeply than before. Dean felt it that time, and let out a small, gagging gasp.

Myah turned and slurped at his blood hungrily, ruthlessly. Her hand tightened on his throat, and Dean's lungs hitched for breath. Panicked hazel eyes tried to look anywhere but at the vampire. They always fell back to her, though, his mind hardly registering the horror he was witnessing.

He felt several tearing pains and it took his mind a few moments to register that she had just released her second set of teeth—fangs—into his flesh. He shut his eyes against the pain. Felt the edges of darkness begin to creep in on him.

She stopped suddenly and let go of his throat at the same time. Stood up. Made no move to tidy the glistening red juices that dripped down her jaw this time. She had a primal look in her eyes that he couldn't tear his hazel gaze away from, and he coughed and choked at the new-found abundance of air.

Time stood still as silence danced in front of them.

When the vampire had seemed to calm herself a bit, she spoke in a flat, even tone. "You ready for a third round, Dean?" She asked, navy eyes glinting with malice. "That's the great part about being a girl. I'm always ready for another."

He didn't reply, just continued to hitch for breath. Seethed contempt and fear. Battled the rise of bile in his throat.

"You don't have anything to say? Don't want to show off that supposed steel will of yours?"

Dean swallowed. Words were not automatic this time.

Myah broke into a smile, finally. Her features brightened with what the hunter swore to be affection. She took a step towards him and ran a hand through his hair. "That's a good boy, Dean."

She turned and started to walk away, but hesitated. Spun around to look at him again. Dug her free hand into the pocket of her swaying black pants. Closed the gap between them again, and Dean tried to hide a flinch.

She inserted a key into one of his shackles, and then the other. The sudden lack of support sent Dean tumbling to the ground with grunt. Body on autopilot, he slowly and painfully moved himself into a fetal position. Strained to turn his head and look up at her, his hazel eyes a messy confusion of so many different emotions that he didn't know what to feel.

"Do something about those wounds. Don't want you to bleed to death in here." A small, dry, cherry grin.

She turned again and began to walk to the door. Just when Dean thought it was safe to drop his gaze, she froze and looked back at him once more. She studied him, with a look that was not malicious or fond or anything else he had seen her display. No, her face held a curious gaze. "You need to learn to let go of Sam, Dean." She said. "Life's so much more painful when you're holding on to others. Especially when you don't have much of it left…"

And with that she was gone, leaving him to lie there with her words echoing through his brain.

* * *

**A/N:** There you have it! Now I have to bring up the poor grammar. I have a lot of bad sentence structure, but I assure you that most (hopefully all) of it was purposeful. I hope it adds to the mood and feel of the story. Also, spell check is telling me that I've made up four words in this chapter. If you can pick out two of them (without using spell check!!) and send them to me in a PM (not in the reviews, please!) you'll win a spoiler to the story!

Don't forget to review. :)

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	5. V

**A/N:** Well first and foremost I would like to apologize for the delay in posting! Thanks for sticking with me, despite the length of time between chapters. Secondly I'd like to thank all of the reviewers for my last chapter - GotTheShining, Benigma, Halcyon Impulsion, LamiaJade, riquitv, irishgirl9, MontyPythonFan, nurplegurl and deangirl1 - you guys keep me going! Special thanks to Benigma and Halcyon Impulsion for their inquiries and support! Oh, and Happy Thanksgiving to all my Canucks out there!

**Warnings:** The usual smacking around of the one that we call Dean. If you've enjoyed (or withstood) the chapters before this one, than you know what you're getting into. If the prior content has offended in any way this story is probably not for you!

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Coming to consciousness for Dean was often something new and different every morning. The familiarity that most experienced upon waking up in their own warm bed was something that for Dean, and for Sammy, had always been saved for occasional trips to Pastor Jim's or Bobby's. Although hotel rooms all seemed to share the same or similar qualities, especially within a Winchester budget, there was still something very different about each and every one of them; it was as if the people, or perhaps other presences, had irrevocably altered each space, causing it to take on a life of its own.

Dean and Sam could lay their heads down in the same hotel that they had been in before and only two rooms over, and it would still be a completely new experience.

So when Dean first began to wake, he fought against that partial sense of panic that was brought on by the unending rotation of unfamiliar surroundings, a feeling that he realized he would never get rid of and even less likely admit to Sam. Perhaps, in the end, it was this that was the only thing familiar about waking.

Something didn't feel right, though.

Something felt really, really wrong.

And if that growing sense of unease had not been enough to wake the hunter completely, the sudden excruciating pain that swallowed his entire upper body definitely was.

The hunter groaned, his eyes popping open in sluggish surprise. The pain was not momentary; fire in his arms and chest did not subside with the passing moments, nor his wakefulness.

Memories suddenly joined the assault on his senses, and he found himself a little afraid and a lot confused.

He had been chained up... there was a woman...

It took him a few seconds to remember what she had done to him but the powerful hate that he felt towards her was there initially.

Automatically he moved his hand to his face, the stiffness and afflictions proving it to be a slow and arduous task. It was a movement that took him an eternity to complete, and he slowly and self-consciously swiped at his mouth, remnants of dried blood caking his face.

He laid there for a moment, struggling to make sense of what he remembered happening. Warily he looked down at his arms. The angry cuts were still there. Before passing out, he had held the freshest two wounds as tight as he could against his body, attempting to stop the bleeding. It had been Myah's will, though, and if he wasn't so stubbornly set on getting out of there and spending his last few months left on Earth saving people, hunting things and enjoying time with his brother, it would have actually been tempting to let himself continue to bleed, just to spite her.

It's not like he had much time left, anyway.

Thinking about the woman who was beginning to make Dean's life a living Hell caused him to clench his jaw angrily. He was disturbed at this prison he was in. Was his sole purpose being locked up here just to provide some sort of sick treat? And if that were so, then why him?

Why did these things always happen to him?

_Better me than Sam..._

Dean let out a moan and closed his eyes. He hated not knowing how his brother was fairing. Had he fallen into the grasp of the psycho-angry-vampire too? Or was he out there, somewhere, searching for him?

When they got out of this one, Dean was sure that he was in store for a few quips about late night snacking...

The hunter found himself trying desperately to avoid that last straggling possibility, purposely left behind the crowd... the one that unpopularly whispered tales of Sam, broken and bleeding on the floor of an already stained hotel room carpet...

_No_, he told himself. There was no way.

A pang of regret and guilt bubbled up from inside, something that was always there and only sometimes dormant. He had already managed to get his brother killed once. He hadn't been there for Sam when he needed him, and for that Sammy had died. He refused to believe that his baby brother could be dead, once more, because of him. Despite everything Dean had done to rectify his mistakes.

And here he was, screwing up again. If Sam wasn't already in danger, then he was going to be. Because Sammy wouldn't stop until he found Dean.

Because Sammy was a much better brother than Dean was.

Dean snorted, annoyed with himself. How on Earth could he ever consider himself be so important? He was definitely not worth extra body count to get to... unless you counted the demon population, perhaps. No, of course Myah hadn't killed Sam to get to him. Sure, she seemed to know a lot about them, but plenty a vampire nest probably did.

"_You need to learn to let go of Sam, Dean. Life's so much more painful when you're holding on to others. Especially when you don't have much of it left…" _

The sentence had given Dean chills. He had lay there, on the cold floor, pressing his inner arms against his legs and chest, trying to stop the bleeding, shivering, trying not to concentrate on how that witch could have known that about him, how close those words had hit Dean deep down to the bone.

He felt more aware now, though. He knew better. He knew not to trust that which he hunted. _Just a guess_, he dismissed. _Just a lucky guess_...

It was much easier to believe that Sam was safe if he believed his blood-thirsty captor was faking.

And the little thought that worried him otherwise could just stay far behind with the pessimistic injured-or-dying Sam possibility. Far, far behind.

Dean was supposed to be good at pegging out the hidden agendas of those that they hunted. He was even talented at finding them in the people that they didn't hunt. It probably had somewhat to do with the fact that he naturally distrusted nearly everyone and everything, but even so, he just seemed to instinctually know the dark and dirty _why_ behind ghoulish faces and pretend smiles.

But his newest adversary had him in the dark, both literally and figuratively.

And she must have put a lot of faith in his inability to move, now that he was no longer bound. He wasn't sure if this made him happy, or scared him. Perhaps the door just held a simple lock that he would be able to pick if given the right make-shift tool. Perhaps there was no way to pick a lock and it was bolted from the outside. Or perhaps it was just part of her twisted game, and visions of the movie _Saw_ flew into Dean's brain. He had laughed at the film when he had seen it a few years back. Now he was hesitating at the thought of finding out what was waiting for him at the door...

It opened suddenly, an unfriendly metallic banging that caused Dean to jump, his scrutiny so intense that he irrationally wondered if he made it open.

But soon he was glaring up at Myah, and all thoughts were lost, save for those of loathing in its purest form.

She was not alone. A man followed behind her and Dean pulled details from his peripheral, his gaze unwavering from Myah's. The stranger had blond hair. Dark eyes. A few extra years on Dean. A few extra inches in height. A few extra pounds of muscle, too.

"I see that you've finally awaken," Myah said as she towered over him, hands on her hips. She flashed him a grin, and Dean noticed in a bemused state that her regular canines were also rather quite sharp.

_All the better to eat you with_... he thought to himself, giving her a rueful smirk in return.

"I'm so glad to see that you didn't bleed to death on me, Dean," the female vampire told him in a laced voice. "I knew that I chose a Winchester for a reason."

Dean flinched, but didn't answer. Right now, it would probably hurt to talk. Hell, with the hits to his head coupled with his unwilling blood donation, it even hurt to think. He concentrated on keeping his breathing even, instead.

She didn't seem to enjoy his silence, though, for she frowned. "What's the matter, Dean? Are you worrying about how much I know about you? Or why I chose you?" She paused. "You worried about widdle Sammy?"

She had hit the spot. Her captive's eyes flashed dangerously, but Dean forced himself not to humor her with a response.

Myah bent down and leaned over him, her face uncomfortably close to his. Dean's pulse began to quicken, against all his best efforts. Myah smiled, and Dean felt himself even more frustrated, more uneasy, knowing that she could probably hear his heart thudding against his chest, the blood gushing through his temples, thanks to her super vampire senses.

"You want to know why I picked you, Dean?" She questioned, trailing a nail not too gently along his jawline. He vehemently tried to move away, but she grabbed his jaw in her hand, forcing him to look at her. "Because you're cuter."

He made a move to shake her grasp, desperation disguised as defiance. A pinned-down dog at a kennel, about to take a shot. About to take _the_ shot. She was too strong, and she laughed at his helplessness. Her fingers bit harder into his face. She moved closer, no longer smiling. Held him there, silence palpable and venomous, displaying her control over him.

Finally she pushed his head away, and it connected with the ground with enough force to cause him to see red momentarily. Myah got back to her feet and crossed her arms. A pause. A smile. "Besides," she began, and paced around him a little. "You'd be a fool to want to tick off the demons on Sam's tail."

Dean blinked at the ceiling. He was beginning to feel like his silence was a weakness, and that was a word that he chose to omit from his vocabulary. "So you picked damaged goods instead?" A statement, not quite a question. Meant to confuse.

To Dean's surprise, Myah was not thrown off by what he had said. Instead, she just laughed. "Oh, you mean your deal?" She stopped her movements and glared down at him again. Mockingly. "I already know about your deal, Dean."

For this, he had no words. Only a sick feeling deep in his gut.

She laughed again, reveling in his reaction. "I'm sorry dear… am I interrupting your last precious moments on God's green earth?" A quick flick of the hand had her fingers entwined in his short, tussled hair. She tugged, causing the hunter to wince. "Well that's just too bad."

After another prominent look—a moment that lasted forever as Dean seethed at her, nostrils flaring, expecting the curved blade to flash in front of his eyes at any second—she let him go.

Myah stood up, glanced at the man who had followed her in, and nodded her head towards Dean.

The stranger took a step up from behind her, and it was then that Dean noticed the tray in his hands. The man bent down and set it in front of the hunter; on the rusty metal platter sat a delicate china plate filled with mashed potatoes and tiny steamed vegetables. As if on cue, Dean suddenly realized how hungry he was, and had no idea how long it had been since he'd eaten last.

No way he was eating this, though.

His eyes rose from the plate to Myah, whose own eyes had been on him the whole time.

"Eat it." She declared, her voice cold.

Dean frowned. "What, you mean, someone else gets feeding time for once?" He snarled.

"Eat it." She said again, her voice dropping slightly lower.

Dean narrowed his eyes and raised his chin in defiance. As hungry as he was, he wasn't about to trust this vampire—this wench—on any level. For all he knew, the food was poisoned, and he was not about to take that chance.

Not when Sam was going to find him soon.

"Dean, you eat your food or I'll make you eat it." Her voice held no nonsense, no trace of a lie.

Dean swallowed, wavering… he had felt the wrath of that tone of voice before. But still he didn't move.

"Sebastian." Her voice was directed to the stranger, whose dark eyes also held nothing but a serious determination. The blond stepped forward, and before Dean had the chance to flinch, the man knelt down and grabbed Dean's forehead. The man's other hand found its way to Dean's chin, and he began to slowly and painfully pry the hunter's mouth open.

Dean began to thrash, but once again his strength held no pull on what seemed to be another vampire.

Myah stooped over and picked up the plate from its antique-like tray. With heels clicking along the stone floor, she stepped up to the two men on the floor, and knelt down on the other side of Dean. She tisked. "You should have listened to me, Dean," her voice held some pity, some amusement. "You should always listen to me."

With those words, she grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes with her bare hand and shoved it in Dean's open mouth. The pinned hunter let out a strangled cry, trying to spit and to not choke. Before he had the chance to work the food out with this tongue, she shoved some more into his mouth, and Sebastian forced his mouth closed.

Dean's eyes widened in alarm even before Myah's fingers pinched off his nose. He began gagging and fought not to breathe in the clumpy, foreign substance in his mouth.

"Swallow or suffocate, Dean." Her voice stated it like a simple truth, just one of Sammy's random trivia facts that floated in the boy's brain, uselessly expelled upon occasion in the Impala. Dean was beginning to choke, his head and lungs beginning to hurt without the aid of oxygen. He tried to calm himself, to stop his legs from kicking. He tried to swallow the damn food.

The cement-like texture of the potatoes did nothing to ease his choking. He swallowed, eyes clenched shut in pain, and swallowed again. It wasn't until Myah was satisfied that he had no more food in his mouth did she let go of his nose. Sebastian followed suit, both hands dropping from the hunter's face.

Dean gasped for air, inhaling specks of leftover vegetable but he didn't care; he wheezed and coughed, unable to get enough oxygen for what he had lacked in just a few seconds that seemed like forever. Suddenly he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat and he hastily rolled over onto his hands and knees, continuing to cough until the familiar sting of bile reached his mouth and he was throwing up.

Myah and Sebastian had stood up and away from the display, watching with amusement and disgust respectively as the hunter wretched up the fresh contents of his stomach onto the floor in front of them.

Dean continued to be ill for a full minute before feebly pushing himself away and against the wall. He shuddered, and although too weak to hold his head high, his eyes glared up at his captors with hate and humiliation, his face holding some color for the first time in a while as he flushed. Tears fell from his eyes and onto his freckled cheeks from the strain of heaving, and he couldn't stop his lungs from continuing to hitch.

Myah let out a sinister laugh. God, how he loathed her laugh, and the sharp grating on his insides that it caused. "I told you Dean," she smiled, placing the plate back onto the tray, "you should listen to me. I know what's best for you." She pushed the tray towards Dean with her toe. "Now eat."

His head snapped up at her in surprise, wide hazel eyes alight with disbelief and fear.

She nodded at him, the smile falling from her face once more. "I mean it."

Dean swallowed hard, already fighting with the food once more before it even came close to him. He was scared of getting sick, scared of giving in. But mostly he was scared of the helplessness of what had just happened, and of being forced to repeat it.

He dropped his eyes, and with a shaking hand reached over to spoon up some mashed potatoes with his fingers. He gagged and closed his eyes, commanding himself to regain control of his senses, over the situation. Just a few bites and they would leave.

He shoved the portion in his mouth and swallowed without thinking, without breathing. Told it to stay in his stomach. Begged it not to be poisoned… He opened his hazel eyes once more and glanced up at his captors.

_Please, no more_...

She just watched him expectantly. Didn't move. He reached out again. Forced another bit into his mouth. Swallowed without gagging.

The woman vampire nodded at him with what seemed to be approval. Maybe even a little bit of pride. She then nodded at Sebastian, who stooped and picked up the tray and left the cell. She turned to follow her cohort, the sharp details of her jacket spinning as she did so.

"Good boy." She said over her shoulder as she left the cell with a clang.

God how he hated those words.

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Please review and let me know what you think! )

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	6. VI

**A/N**: Hello hello! I cannot believe how long it's been since I've updated this story. I didn't really expect to lose a feel for it after I partook in Nanowrimo '08. I won, btw! First year ever. It was fantastic. Anyway, I hope this is a nice surprise for all of you that have this on alert. It was fun to write, and I'm hoping to continue to update it more steadily once more.

I went back and corrected some spelling and grammar mistakes from earlier chapters. You probably need to re-catch up after this long, huh?

This is dedicated to the reviewers, and especially to Benigma and Halcyon Impulsion (yeah yeah, you should have betaed it, shush.) I hope especially that this is a treat for them.

**Warnings**: The usual. Gratuitous Dean hurt (with a purpose, of course... I do it for the story I swear;) this includes a little violence and a lot of angst.

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Sam unfolded his lanky frame from the Impala, smoothing his suit haphazardly with the palms of his hand. His brow troubled with worry, he took a moment to bury those emotions as far from the surface as he possibly could, set on completing the task at hand.

Double-checking to make sure that his badge was where it should be, in the inside left pocket of his suit jacket, Sam ran a long-fingered hand through his hair and entered the bank.

Flashing the bold letters 'FBI' at the nearest teller, he asked to see the manager of the small financial institution.

It was a pretty standard building as banks go. The small, brick structure had been around for a few decades. It housed only two ATM machines, in the lobby. Clutching the receipt he had gained from the corner store clerk the night before, Sam studied it once more. There was no way he could tell from that slip of paper which ATM the woman had used. That, coupled with the fact that it was, well, a bank, had forced Sam to wait until morning and request the help of the manager, rather than breaking into the building and taking matters into his own hands.

As far as he could tell, breaking into a bank never concluded to very good results.

Soon he was being led into one of the back offices by a short man with a shiny head and a scraggly comb-over. The manager looked exactly like a weasel personified. Already light-headed from lack of sleep and overwhelming worry, Sam had to fight not to grin aloud at the thought, and the image of Dean's own amused (or rather, frightened) face had he been with him.

The manager introduced him to the on-duty security guard that was housed in what turned out to be a surveillance room. He then left, rather flustered, and Sam could only guess that the small man did not want to bring attention to what could be an awkward situation for the bank.

The security guard, Tom, was a kindly old man with sharp, un-spectacled blue eyes and a fatherly air that made Sam think that he probably had children, and grandchildren.

"So you're looking to catch a criminal, huh?" Tom asked as he pushed up a chair for Sam and sat down beside him so that they were both facing the multiple black and white television sets.

The man's easy attitude helped Sam relax, if just a little. "Something like that," he replied with a slight smile. "I actually have a lead on a suspect that might have used one of your ATMs last night." With that, Sam handed over the receipt to the security guard.

The man studied the slip of paper, nodded, and began playback on one of the televisions in front of them. After a few moments he found the section of the recording that coincided with the time that was stamped on the receipt.

Sam frowned at the screen in front of him, which was glowing in the dimly-lit room. He found himself extremely disappointed in the image, and had to fight to keep that gnawing fear in his stomach from chewing itself back up to the surface. Confirming that his suspect was indeed a woman was really all that the footage was good for. She wore a scarf over her head and very large, gaudy sunglasses. It was hard to pick out any distinctive features at all on the poor quality of the low-resolution camera coupled with the scratchy black and white television.

"Well that doesn't help you much does it?" Tom said with a smile, sympathetic but obviously enjoying the company that Sam provided.

The youngest Winchester sighed and shook his head. He shut his eyes briefly, and ran a hand through his hair. Although Tom played the footage back a second time, in case there was something else to be had out of the recording, there was nothing substantial that could help him. Only a well-covered woman extracting cash from the nearest ATM.

Nearest to what? Sam thought to himself.

Nearest to he and his brother.

Tom pushed his chair away from the televisions and wheeled it over to the computer that was in the room. He clicked away at it, and after a few moments, Sam heard the unappealing screech of an out-of-date printer.

"Here you go," Tom said, standing up and handing the piece of paper to Sam. "It's not much, and it wouldn't stand up in court without a warrant, but it's something to go on." He gave Sam another sympathetic smile, and the younger man couldn't help but wonder if he wasn't hiding his feelings as well as he thought he was.

Sam smiled his thanks and looked down at the paper in his hands. With surprise, he realized that it was a bank statement.

"It's hers," Tom explained, sitting back down beside him. "Like I said, it's legal for you to request it, but it's not incriminating material unless you have that pretty little signed paper from the courts."

"You sound like you've done this a time or two," Sam commented up at the guard with a smile, before looking back at the paper. His eyes were automatically drawn to the transactions that were recorded—a butcher, a department store, Sal's Convenienc, from beside their motel—until he looked up at the name on the statement.

Sam all but jumped up from the chair he was sitting on, rage taking on his features that could hardly be hidden, stranger in the room or no. Heart pounding, jaw clenched, fingers shaking, he could only manage a quick "thanks" to the startled security guard before bounding clumsily out of the room and out of the bank, the helpless bank statement strangled in his grasp.

Sam got out to the Impala and looked back down at the paper to make sure that his eyes were not playing tricks on him. The name on it was the same. It was probably the last name he could have expected to appear at a time like this.

He pounded his hand against the cool black metal of the classic car and swore in his head. And then out loud.

"Dammit," he growled, before finally getting in and peeling away from the curb.

_Bela Lugosi._

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There was a spot that the draft was less; in the far left corner of the room if one was facing the door, as he had been when he had been hanging from the shackles. Dean sought what little comfort he could there, laying on his side or with his back against the shadowy wall, always with his arms wrapped around his knees. It was warmer that way, and for some silly reason he felt just a little bit safer. Like he wasn't locked in some ancient dungeon wannabe of a place; like he wasn't being periodically being violated by the blade of a sadistic vampire.

He lay there, conscious, but trying not to be. He was wracked with shivers once more; it must have been further into the evening. One day after she had made him eat, maybe two. He could never really be sure; a worrisome head injury had him weaving in and out of consciousness all the time. But every time he woke, every time he opened his eyes and was greeted with the nightmarish vision-come-true of a cold, damp cell, his heart sank a little bit more. His brother hadn't found him yet. He was stuck in Hell on Earth, merely months before his trip to Hell.

And boy, was this Hell cold.

He couldn't help but wish she would give him some sort of a blanket, at least. His shirt maybe. She kept insinuating that he was to be there a long time… if she were smart, she wouldn't want him to get sick, right?

Ill blood probably wouldn't taste as good.

He winced at the thought.

Sammy had to be getting close. He was a good hunter, one of the best, Dean surmised. He never let him down. Hell, he could be breaking through that door at any minute…

The elder Winchester brother didn't realize that he lifted his head a little at the thought, glancing over in the direction of the door.

Yup, any minute now.

Hours ago, perhaps yesterday, after he had regained some strength from the food incident, Dean had gathered enough vigor to check out the door. Limbs still burning, his pulse pounding through his temples, he had crawled to the wall, using it as support to bring himself to his feet. He stumbled the rest of the way to the door, weak but full of hope—hope that they were just stupid enough to underestimate a Winchester.

It had been bolted from the outside. Nothing to pick, no way to bust through. The steel closure was a stark contrast to the ancient-looking stone of the walls. New technology with a tried-and-true old favorite. Meant to keep him in at all costs.

Frustrated, he had pounded the steel with his fist, the pain of a couple split knuckles a welcome distraction to his ugly arms. Disheartened, he found his knees failing, his eyes closing. He leaned his head against the cool steel, angry at the vampires, at himself, even angry at Sam for not finding him yet. The latter was only fleeting, and he felt even angrier at himself for even thinking such a thing. Sammy didn't do this to him; he had brought this upon himself. If he hadn't been so stupid, if he had been more careful, had followed his instincts like his dad had taught him…

It wasn't long after that when he had discovered the draft-less corner. He had sought that corner originally because it was furthest from the door, and because he could sort of see out of the tiny, barred window. He thought that there might have been trees.

But most of all, he sought it because it was the furthest from the chains.

The door opened then, and the noise still made him jump. This disgusted Dean, but he pushed the thought away, and lifted his head with narrowed eyes that were unused to the blast of light. Bit back the surprise that undoubtedly showed when he realized that Myah was nowhere in sight—instead, Blondie was there, a tray in hand once more.

Dean took a large swallow and for a fleeting moment, the sarcastic side of his brain almost asked out loud if he was getting steak for being such a good boy. But his realistic side took over, and he knew that evil mashed potatoes were the least of his worries right now.

Blondie set the tray down beside his head and stood back up, staring at Dean with eerie, unblinking eyes. Suddenly he kicked out, catching the hunter in the ribs with what could only be steel-toed boots. "Get up," the man growled as Dean clutched his middle and groaned.

Dean gave a little cough and peered up at him through the corner of his eyes. "Shouldn't you be taking orders, not giving them?" He mumbled.

And instantly regretted being unable to switch off.

Blondie—Sebastian, he thought his name was—made a sudden movement for him, causing Dean to gasp and try to move away. It was to no avail, and a large hand circled his neck, pulling him upwards and forcing the hunter to his feet. The vampire pressed him against the wall with unnatural strength, and Dean found himself choking once more.

The man just stood there for a moment as Dean squirmed to get free of the grip. Cold, black eyes stared at him, studying him, and Dean felt all the world like a lab rat. That's all he was, just some sort of disgusting experiment to these bloodsuckers. _How long can we bleed him until he dies?_

But Dean somehow had a feeling that this wasn't what he was here for. He was sure that he was to be for no one but Myah, with her dark hair and navy eyes and cruel, cold mouth…

Suddenly Sebastian drew close to Dean, his nose trailing a path along Dean's chin and slowly to his neck. The hunter's hazel eyes widened and he let out a small gasp of surprise. He froze, his whole body stiffening as he ceased trying to get away. His skin began to crawl as he felt the breath of the vampire along his throat, the familiar sensation of his stomach churning once again took over.

This was not right. Oh god, this was so wrong.

Dean fought hard not to tremble, to show any weakness against his current company, swallowing hard against the chills and the vomit that were rising in his throat. He didn't know what was happening; he didn't know what to do. He couldn't move if he wanted to, he was paralyzed…

Myah had already violated him in this way, with her closeness, her breath, but somehow this felt different, it felt so much worse.

And just like that it was over. Blondie let go of Dean's throat, sending him ungracefully to the ground. The hunter's hands immediately found his neck, wrapping his fingers protectively around it. He couldn't find it in himself to look up at the man. Instead, he tried to slow his breaths, his pulse. Stared straight ahead, trying to avoid the trembling that had found its way back to his spine.

Sebastian kicked the tray towards him. "I have to make sure you eat," he growled with his deep voice.

Dean's eyes fell to the tray. A paper plate filled with what resembled Hamburger Helper looked almost less appetizing than the mashed potatoes of his last meal. He couldn't bring himself to make a move for it.

Suddenly Blondie backhanded him across the temple, white spots danced in front of his eyes and his vision swam so badly that he thought for sure it would give out and mercifully allow him to slip into unconsciousness. He braced himself with his hands pressed against the floor, fighting against the shooting pain in his head and another bout of nausea.

When he didn't move, Blondie went to hit him a second time, and Dean jumped back. "Okay!" He cried, biting back the sting of tears from the pain and a flood of emotion that he couldn't quite grasp. The reaction had satisfied the vampire, and he took a step back to watch him.

Dean inhaled and reached out his hand, drawing the tray nearer. Once more his untrusting mind toyed with the possibility that it was poisoned, but no, that wouldn't make any sense. It hadn't been last time. She wanted to drink from him, and anything bad in his system would be very apparent in his blood.

No, she just wanted him to keep up his strength. To keep producing her bright red beverage.

Sadistic bitch.

His nose wrinkled at the smell of the slop; as kids, Hamburger Helper had been a treat. Now it looked as unappetizing as wet cat food, or worse—wet cat food when it had already been processed. But he knew his watcher wouldn't leave until he had choked some down.

There was a plastic fork. Dean grasped it and with an unsteady hand, spooned up some of the hamburger and brought it to his face. He tried his hardest not to breathe in, positive that the smell would make him wretch on the spot. He just didn't have the stomach for food right now. Not with his injuries. Not with what she had done to him.

The texture only made it worse, and he forwent chewing and swallowed the mouthful with one painful gulp. He raised his eyes a little, expecting maybe another attack but hoping that the vampire would leave. In return he received neither, only those chilly eyes watching him. Waiting. Leaving unseen burn marks all the way through him. Dean took another mouthful. And then another.

Satisfied, or perhaps bored, Blondie spun on his heels and left without a word.

Dean slumped back against the wall with relief and shuddered. He gathered his knees up again, a subconscious action that he didn't really seem to notice. He half-heartedly kicked the tray away with his toe and willed the food to stay in his stomach, fearing the grub coming back up more than going down. Fearing the show of weakness that he associated with getting sick.

Fearing the repercussions of ignoring the will of Myah.

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**P.S**.: REVIEW! :) I threaten to withold the next chapter captive for another half-year otherwise.


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